


Under the Bleachers

by mugsandpugs



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Consensual Sex, Cunnilingus, First Dates, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Scott-Centric, Smut, Some Jean/Scott, Trans Scott Summers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26364568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: Scott Summers had never been a saint, no matter what people assumed.
Relationships: Lance Alvers/Scott Summers
Comments: 13
Kudos: 31





	Under the Bleachers

Scott Summers knew that, as far as gender went, he was one of the "lucky ones." He'd been able to recognize his gender early, knowing it like he knew the model airplanes his father brought home from work. He was a frustrated toddler insisting he was a boy, a _boy,_ whenever anyone tried to tell him differently.

His parents, rather than mistaking this behavior for mere childhood tantrums, had taken their son seriously. They'd researched. They'd learned. They'd bought him new clothes; allowed him a drastic haircut. They helped him choose a name for himself. When other parents made disparaging comments, they were quickly shut out of the Summers' life. Alex grew up knowing only a brother; never a sister.

As Scott aged, discussion of hormone blockers was underway. There were pros and cons to weigh, of course — his parents wanted to learn everything about the possible health effects. Scott thought he could be happy with or without the blockers. Everyone he knew, everyone he loved, understood him for who he was. The shapes and pieces of his body weren't causing him any distress. He was lucky, indeed.

And then there was The Accident. The loss that ripped half of Scott's heart out of his chest and never returned it. There was a part of him, he feared, that would always be falling out of that burning airplane; tumbling end after end for eternity.

Charles Xavier had been named his and Alex's godfather shortly after their births. There was no foster shuffle for the orphaned pre-teen; only a kind old man who held him tight as he screamed and wept and burned holes in the walls around them; who whispered in his ear: "I'm so sorry, darling; so, so sorry. You're safe here, Scott; I'll take care of you, I love you..."

It was Charles who commissioned his ruby quartz glasses. Charles who taught him how to live with a disability. Charles, who stayed by his side through catatonic depression and uncharacteristic misbehavior; a child lashing out because the world didn't make sense anymore; because he, Scott, should have died, it should have been him, not them, and now he was all broken and wrong and alone, his brain damaged, his powers uncontrollable...

_("Don't say that, Scott. Don't you ever, ever think that again.")_

He forwent the blockers. There was just too much going on... He was seeing a grief counselor for his mental health, and trying different styles of extremely expensive glasses for his powers. He had to learn from scratch how to live a life where his family was dead, and he was not.

The thought of one more new thing to deal with was nigh unbearable... And yet puberty was hardly any better. Acne, breasts, monthly bleeding, swinging hormones, unwanted arousal, attention from grown men that he'd never once asked for. He gained a distressing amount of weight one summer, and grew six inches taller by the next. His feet were huge; his teeth were crooked; his pores were molten magma.

"I hurt everywhere," he sobbed to Charles, face-down on his pillow.

Charles stroked up and down his spine, always thoughtful, always soothing. "This, too, shall pass," he promised.

Jean happened; a whirlwind of lust and confusion and fire-red hair. Their first kiss was too hard, awkward, their teeth clacking, her nails jabbing him in the cheek. They laughed, apologized, and tried again.

She knew he was trans, of course. Most everyone living in the X-mansion knew. It was hardly a secret, after all, or even a big deal. Rahne turned into a wolf, Kurt teleported in a cloud of blue smoke, and Scott Summers preferred sports bras to binders. 

So when he got Jean Grey in the backseat of his car, when he cupped her breasts with nervous, shaking hands, she asked if she could do the same. He nodded, the blush on his cheeks matching the tint of his goggles. His shirt tangled in the elastic band as he tried to pull it off, and Jean giggled softly. Her fingers skating over his bra made his heart perform impressive acrobatics.

Under her clothes she wore some satin thing that looked incredible on her moon-pale skin, and he was somehow both sweating _and_ dry-mouthed by the time they lay down, topless, kissing with a heat that no frantic masturbation in the shower could match.

"Does this feel good?" he asked, again and again, when mouthing a nipple or stroking her stomach. He stared at her, noting every reaction like a worshipper at communion. He must've been moving too slowly for her liking, because with an impatient growl she dragged his hand between her slick, freckled thighs.

She taught him how to touch her, and asked if she might return the favor. Sometimes his answer was no, if he was feeling strange in his body. Sometimes his answer was a desperate, pleading, _"yes; don't stop! I love you so much!"_

Making love to Jeannie made him feel bigger inside; fuller. A unit of two, no longer alone.

It was over too soon, too fast. Too many arguments. Overflowing schedules. She was aiming to be their class valedictorian, she said. They were applying for different universities. She needed to focus on soccer and AP classes, and didn't have time for a relationship. They'd always be friends!

(He got puking-on-the-bathroom-floor drunk after seeing her with Actual Human Cesspool Duncan _fucking_ Matthews. She wasn't too busy, after all; she was simply too good for someone as damaged as he. How had he ever believed that he and Perfect Jean Grey belonged in the same world?!

Logan scooped him off the floor, later. Washed his mouth at the sink. Forced glass after glass of water down his throat, and carried him off to bed.)

Estrogen or no, puberty was kind to Scott. Like his parents, he surpassed six feet by senior year. His naturally slim frame, coupled with daily strenuous exercise, allotted him tight muscles and small breasts; narrow hips. The softness of his features could be attributed to youth, and were easily masked by goggles. He couldn't grow facial hair to save his life, but that was fine; he didn't know how to shave it, anyway.

When he looked in a mirror, he saw a mix of his family: his mother's thick chestnut hair and tapered waist. His father's strong jaw and elegant hands. He had Alex's aquiline nose and crooked smile. In him, he carried pieces of them all, keeping their spirits alive. It wasn't a bad body to live in.

That didn't make it any less jarring when he chased an errant soccer ball behind the school bleachers and found one Lance Dominic Alvers standing, a hand clutching a metal support beam, the other buried in the golden curls of a kneeling boy that Scott vaguely recognized from the tennis team.

"Fuck," Lance was groaning, the ground giving off the slightest little tremors that he was clearly trying to supress. His chest was hitching, his eyes shut tight. _"God,_ your mouth is like velvet."

Forget the boys' mouth; Lance's _voice_ wrapped around Scott's chest and sank into his skin, prickling and fuzzy and making him shiver all over. He was rooted to the spot, eyes wide, knowing he must avert his gaze but finding himself unable to do so. He was vaguely aware of his mouth hanging open like a very startled fish.

"Fuck, fuck..." Alvers's moans grew higher and sweeter. The quaking of the ground increased to a steady vibration. His face was positively euphoric, and Scott had the realization that he'd never considered Lance beautiful before. How could he have missed it? _"Fuck,_ I'm gonna come..."

The boy pulled away, jerking Lance's spit-slick cock off until he came, moaning, on the grass. The uneven white spurts seemed to last an eternity. For a moment Scott thought Lance was going to fall on his butt, but his wobbly legs held. He hauled the kneeling boy to his feet and kissed him, hungry and eager. Somehow, the kiss moved Scott more than any of the... _Fellatio._ This wasn't just an afternoon's delight to Lance — or, if it was, it was one he had warmth and affection for.

"Thanks, man. I needed that."

Scott couldn't help it: he _snorted._ It was just the casual, bro-ish way Lance had said it... How very Alvers of him.

Both boys looked up at him, startled, then panicked, then angry.

Oops.

"I was just leaving," Scott reassured, his feet finally unlocking from the now-still ground. He looked around for his soccer ball, grabbed it, and walked away as quickly as his wobbly legs would carry him.

He was so wet he felt it drip down his thighs. His boxers were surely soaked. He felt a throbbing, low in his stomach, that ached for fingers, for toys, for a long, pink tongue.

* * *

As it turned out, Alvers often used that stereotype of a spot for many rendezvous.

Not that Scott caught him on _purpose,_ of course. When he found Lance with his face buried between a petite cheerleader's shaking thighs, he'd been searching for Kurt's missing wallet that he swore he'd lost at last week's game. He didn't find the wallet, but he _did_ find Lance's warm brown eyes tracking him, a slight smirk in place, before the girl dragged his face back down. 

And when he found Alvers pumping away, balls-deep inside a flush-faced Sophomore who was sobbing his name, Scott was taking a shortcut to the study hall portables at the back of the campus. It was a hot day! He just wanted the shadier route; not an obscene show...

Alvers actually offered him a cheeky wave that time, and Scott rolled his eyes with a scowl. Bayville High was quite the place of debauchery, it seemed.

Scott tried never to dwell on the peculiar disappointment he felt whenever he wandered down that path and Alvers _wasn't_ there. Of course he couldn't _always_ be railing someone... His grades were bad, but they weren't failing, and he had to devote _some_ time to being an irritant; causing trouble for the X-Men.

He also tried not to dwell on how often tall, long-haired bad boys began featuring in his late-night fantasies. He wasn't foolish enough to fall for _that_ troublemaker's dimples and charms; no, sir.

Though... He did notice, did appreciate, that Alvers wasn't hostile, wasn't dismissive towards those he took as lovers. That little cheerleader smiled at him in the hallways, and he always smiled back. The tennis player offered him high-fives, which Alvers returned without pause. When that Sophomore he'd fucked found a girlfriend, Lance shot him a wink and the double thumbs-up. Alvers was a lot of things, but at least he wasn't cruel in this. He wasn't using them; no more than they were using him.

* * *

Two months to graduation, and after jogging up and down the bleachers for a warmup, Scott sighed when his keys bounced from his shorts pocket and fell between the steps.

Hopping down the rattling metal structure, Scott followed the keys underneath, trying to keep his momentum going. He would run the track next, and see if he could talk the coach into letting him use the weight room... Sure, they had all that equipment at Charles's mansion, too, but on school mornings, they were always occupied by students and staff. And it was so much nicer outside; the ground hard, the grass springy. Scott felt pure energy in his young bones.

"We can't keep meeting like this, Summers," came a croaky voice from the shadows, followed by a plume of silver cigarette smoke. "People will _talk."_

Scott startled, spinning around, squinting until he spied Lance's lanky form sprawled in the grass. His head was on his backpack, he used a jacket for a blanket, and he was smoking with a morose look on his face.

In his free hand, he offered Scott's keys. "Thanks for hitting me in the face, by the way. I needed another bump on my nose."

"Alvers!" Scott approached, head cocked, his confusion morphing into worry. "Did you _sleep_ out here?"

"At ease, boyscout. I was on a late-night mission for Mystique. It was easier just to pass out here than go all the way home. All's well at the homestead."

That did very little to alleviate Scott's concerns. Quite the opposite, actually. "What were you doing for her?"

Lance waggled a scolding finger. "Uh-uh; that's top secret. I don't grill _you_ on Baldy's little projects, do I?"

Scott gritted his teeth. He'd be telling Xavier about this, for sure. If Charles thought it was something serious, he'd try and study Lance's memories to get a clearer picture. For now, Scott could only walk over to snatch his keys from the other boy's hand. "Thanks; I'll just be—"

Lance caught his wrist, turning it over. For a wild moment, Scott thought he might try to extinguish his cigarette on his palm... He'd seen that happen in some old gangster flicks. He tried to jerk away, even raising a hand to his goggles, but Lance then separated Scott's ring finger from all the rest. 

Scott calmed some. Lance was only looking at his class ring. It was a nice piece; gold band, red stone, with 'Class Of 2003' etched in the metal. Lance's eyes were unusually soft for his harsh face. Genetics had gifted Alvers the eyes of a sweet old Basset hound and the lashes of a secretary bird. It could be distracting, at times.

"Hard to believe we're graduating soon, huh?" Lance asked, his grin turning up on only one side, as though a full smile was just too much effort for his lazy morning. "I thought for sure I'd be back in juvie by now."

So Lance _was_ graduating, then? Some of the X-kids had their doubts...

Lance must've caught Scott's train of thought, because he scowled, rolling his eyes and releasing Scott's hand. "Whatever. Fuck off; I'm still sleeping." He took a drag of his cigarette and turned away, as though Scott were wasting his time.

Scott felt the weight of the keys in his palm. When he looked at them, he saw streaks of rust-red flaking off his wrist. He rubbed one with a thumb and it smeared, the faint stink of copper puffing in its wake. He looked back at Lance. "You're hurt... You're bleeding."

"It's all closed up now. I'll be okay."

"No... You should let me see." Kneeling, as though for an injured animal or a half-feral child, Scott reached out. Lance kept still as he took his arm, turning it over to look at the dried splotches of blood stiffening the dark fabric of his t-shirt. He tried to roll up the sleeve, found it to be too difficult, and ended up reaching down the neck of Lance's shirt to fish his arm free.

Lance snickered, offering neither resistance nor assistance. There were bits of black fuzz stuck to the dried blood on his arm; remnants from his shirt. Scott picked them off, his frown growing. Under all the dried blood, he saw scores of criss-crossing claw marks, shallow and long.

"What made this?" he asked, trying to puzzle it out. "An animal? Did you even wash these?" They were looking a little puffy.

"I like to keep my immune system strong. It needed a little workout."

"It beats me how you've managed to stay alive for eighteen years." Shaking his head, Scott went around to climb the bleachers again, this time fetching his backpack stored at the top. Inside, tucked neatly between folders and snacks and supplies, was a small first aid kit. He brought it back down, already tearing open packets of antibacterial wipes.

Lance raised an eyebrow when Scott dropped a protein bar and a carton of muscle milk — his post-workout snack — into Lance's lap. "Bodies need calories to heal."

Blessedly, he didn't argue. He ate and drank while Scott cleaned him up, dabbing Neosporin on the cuts. A few re-opened despite his gentle treatment, and fresh blood welled, red as a warning sign.

"You're right-handed, right?"

"Trying to find out if I did this to myself? I've got issues, but that's not one of them."

"But you won't tell me what _did_ happen...?" Lance was so lethargic that Scott was beginning to worry. Did he have more injuries, hidden somewhere, or was he merely sleepy?

It would take a ridiculous amount of band-aids to cover the mess, so Scott used gauze and medical tape, re-covering Lance's forearm so the cuts could heal. "You need to clean that every day. Antibacterial soap and water. And take the gauze off later; let it breathe."

"They'll give you your 'bandaging hopeless nutcases' badge any day now, I'm sure. You can wear it on your little sash."

He finished wrapping Lance's arm, taking the time to tuck the corners of the medical tape for easy removal. He'd learned the hard way just how painful scratching it off was.

Only then did the moment stretch, and the silence right with it. Only then did Scott remember _why_ it was awkward to be kneeling, silent. under the bleachers with Lance Alvers.

Clearing his throat, he picked Lance's arm up by the wrist and elbow, transferring it back to the boy's own lap with all the precision of defusing a bomb. He stood, walking back into the soft light of sunrise, only stopping to point at the food he'd given the other boy. "I told you to eat that."

He'd lost his workout momentum, and it threw him from his schedule. There probably wouldn't be time to use the weight room before class began... Damn Alvers, always complicating things...

Pretending the lingering awkwardness was mere frustration, Scott did a few cursory stretches before resuming his bleacher laps. When his muscles were good and warmed, buttery-soft and buzzing under his skin, he moved to the track and started running laps. As the sun awoke, he imagined it energizing him, fueling his breathing, until everything was the track and his feet and his chest and his lungs. This was good. He _felt_ good.

From the corner of his eye he saw Alvers emerge, climb the bleachers, and sit, turning his own face to the sun like a flower. He was watching Scott, but Scott refused to let that fluster him. He would _not_ stumble.

The alarm on his watch beeped at a quarter to seven, and Scott slowed for his last two laps; first a jog, then a walk. He stretched again, slow and gentle, and returned to his backpack for a protein bar and some Gatorade. He dabbed the sweat from his brow with tissues.

"You're good," Alvers complimented from his perch higher up.

"Thank you..." Scott panted between sips. It hadn't come naturally. He'd had to practice and study the correct, most efficient way to run. Like most things, Scott had stubbornly kept at it until it became second nature.

He made for the locker rooms, which of course he had a key to. When Lance saw this, he scrambled after him. "Hold up... I need a shower, too."

It was true; Lance was smelling a little ripe. Scott shot him a stern look. "Don't mess with anything. Just shower and get out. Coach is trusting me with this key."

Lance saluted him sarcastically. "Aye-aye, cap’n."

"And don't get your bandage wet."

True to his word, Alvers didn't mess around with any of the lockers or equipment. He headed straight back to the showers, pulling on a curtain, tossing his clothes over a hook, and starting up the water.

"Do you have shampoo?" Scott called, surprised.

"Nah."

Groaning, Scott took the shower across from his. He wore his flip-flops to protect his feet from the gross floor. He made absolutely certain the curtain was fully drawn, so nobody (Lance) could catch a glimpse of his body. He closed his eyes when he lifted his sports goggles, just enough to clean beneath them. After washing his hair, he rolled the travel-size shampoo bottle from his stall to Lance's, the plastic rattling over gray tile. The conditioner followed; then the bodywash.

Lance finished before he did. Scott took the time to dry off and put on the clothes he'd packed for school before stepping out, squeezing water from his hair. Lance had found and donned a towel somewhere and sprawled on a bench, otherwise bare. He'd left Scott's hygiene supplies in a stack beside him, so Scott packed them away again.

"Classy, Alvers," he jibed. "Leave it all hanging out."

"I'm drip-drying. It's nothing you haven't seen before, anyway."

Scott stiffened. He'd been waiting for Lance to allude to their wordless encounters under the bleachers, and it was finally here. And with far less malice than he'd been anticipating, too.

His eyes betrayed him by darting, quick as lightning, to Lance's face.

Lance caught him looking. Lance _smirked._ "Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. Voyeur."

 _Voyeur!_ Oh, that was rich. "How is it _my_ fault you use school property as your own personal brothel?! Anyone could walk in on you!"

"True... And you sure do... Again, and again... Are you looking for me, Summers? Do you _miss_ me?"

Face flaming, Scott turned to the mirrors beside the urinals. He raked a comb through his hair. Dabbed moisturizer on his face. Reflected in the mirror, Alvers kept up that damn knowing smirk. It was all too much to bear.

"Cut that out," he snapped, swishing and spitting green mouthwash. "Right now."

Instead, Lance slipped off the bench. With his towel knotted precariously low on his hip, he approached Scott from behind. Scott found himself going still, breath catching in his chest, until Lance pressed against his back; six foox, three inches of damp, hot skin. He gripped the sink on either side of Scott's waist.

The breath of anticipation left Scott in a woosh, and he sagged against the sink, knees strangely weak. It had happened, and he hadn't died. Acknowledgement was past.

"Do you like me, Summers?" Lance asked softly, his mouth a breath behind Scott's ear. His stubble tickled. They were layered together like Pringles in a can; chest to back, pelvis to ass. Lance's chin was heavy on his shoulder, and when he moved his hands, they overlapped. Their fingers laced.

Scott swallowed, the sound impossibly loud in this tight space. His heart, which had calmed after his run, began doing some peculiar stunts inside his chest, kicking and stalling and other feats that couldn't be healthy.

It was easy, so easy, to sink back into Lance's hold. To close his eyes. To tip his chin and let curious fingers explore his throat, his jaw. It had been so long since anyone had really touched him...

"You want it?" Lance asked, voice low in a way that sent a geyser of heat bursting in Scott's stomach. His breath left him in a startled puff, and Lance's laugh was quiet against his neck.

"I've never... With a boy before," Scott admitted. It was the easier of the two truths he could admit.

"That's cool... I'm good with first times. It doesn't have to be scary."

Scott's body tingled and burned. Maybe lust was actually an allergic reaction. Maybe he could use that hypothesis in an essay someday.

"Not here," Scott mumbled, ducking his head. He had to clear his mind; had to think. "Not... Not under the bleachers, either."

Lance laughed again; soft, amused without being mocking. "You want plush pillows and a feather bed? Some rose petals, some wine?"

His lips on Scott's earlobe were really doing things to Scott's cognitive functions. And his ability to stand. And otherwise function as a sentient being. Had it been this intense with Jean? How had he survived?! "Maybe..."

"I'll see what I can do, then." Lance kissed the back of his neck before turning away. The loss of his warmth felt like a punishment, and Scott turned, reaching for him. "Wait..."

Lance cocked his head, waiting as asked. If only he could follow other requests so well!

"I _do_ like you," Scott confessed, all in a rush. His heart had shot from somewhere low in his stomach to high in his throat; choking his words. He rested his hands on Lance's bare shoulders. Hesitating only a moment, he kissed him, soft.

Lance's plush lips moved against his, half smile, half praise. His hand came to rest on the back of Scott's head, keeping him close. For all the obscene flirting, it was a very gentle kiss.

Then Lance pulled away, returning to his clothes, his backpack. "Better hurry up, boyscout; wouldn't want a tardy on your spotless record."

As if to underscore his point, the morning bell rang.

* * *

As the days flew by, Scott found himself both high on a fresh crush _and_ sunk below crushing waves of despair. Being a teenager was truly the worst. Objectively, he knew his feelings were all hormones, and that they had no right to disrupt his life so utterly. In reality, though, this was the lovesick brain he had to work with.

He made the best of it. He only thought of Lance two million times a day, rather than the two billion his brain demanded. He kept busy with his normal activities, sort of.

He'd stopped looking under the bleachers, however. The thought of catching Alvers with other people was no longer exciting, but rather made a pit of something bad open up in his chest. Jealousy? Oh, dear. That wasn't his right to feel. That wasn't part of their agreement.

It was during one of his lower moments that Lance called, the landline rattling on different floors of the house. Kurt picked it up and soon teleported into the room he shared with Scott, a puzzled look on his face. "Avalanche is calling for you?"

It'd been nearly a year since he and Kitty had dated. Nearly a year since Alvers had had cause to call their house at all. And now he was calling for _Scott_? No wonder Kurt was confused.

Scott took the phone, looking at it. Kurt waited, curious, until Scott shot him an impatient glance. "Thanks, Kurt, you can go now..."

Kurt pouted, sticking his sharp little tongue out before teleporting away. Scott waved the blue smoke from his face, mustering the courage to hold the plastic brick to his ear; to answer as professionally as possible. "Summers speaking."

"Hey, boyscout."

There the bottom of Scott's stomach went, dropping straight through the floor like he was on the elevator ride at Six Flags. "H-hey."

"You free tomorrow night? I thought I could take you on a drive… Somewhere private, like you wanted.” He paused. With a cajoling note, he added, “I’ll bring food…”

Scott couldn’t help but laugh. It was a goofy sound; altogether too silly. “Boy howdy,” he replied, dry and deadpan. “Am I ever seduced by the power of Hot Pockets.”

 _“I’ll_ give you a Hot Pocket, stud.”

Scott’s giggles grew into an all-out belly laugh. “That’s terrible!”

“You like it. You like me. _And_ you have a cute laugh! What the fuck, Summers; why haven’t I ever heard that before?!”

They bantered. They flirted, badly. It was easier, far easier than it had ever been before, whether over the phone or in person. Scott wasn't stumbling over his words; wasn't saying anything stupid. Or... Not overtly stupid, anyway. When he veered in that direction, Lance only made jokes of it, so that was okay.

Before long, though, Scott knew he had to speak. It had been weighing heavy on him, in a way it never had before. If it was going to hurt, it was safer to be hurt in his own bedroom, rather than a parked Jeep in the middle of nowhere. "I have to tell you something."

"What? You're not actually that good at playing the trumpet? I already knew that, Summers; I'm sorry. I think everyone knows."

"Shut your mouth. I'm excellent at everything I do. No... I just. I needed to tell you. I'm trans. Uh. Transgender. I have a vagina."

There was a pause; a half second where Scott imagined all the worst case scenarios. He had never had to come out as trans before; he'd known his identity at such a young age, and everyone in his home knew and accepted him. This was a new experience.

"Oh. Okay. So... What does that mean? I mean... I know what it _means,_ but what does it mean for _us?_ Is fooling around... Not fun for you?"

Scott let out a deep breath. Alvers didn't sound angry, betrayed, judgemental. He was curious, but not invasive. This, Scott could work with.

"I do like... Fooling around," Scott admitted, face heating at the audacity of saying something so scandalous. And over the phone, to boot! "I just... I'm not a girl. I don't want you to treat me like a girl, or think of me as one, or—"

"You're a boy, through and through. There's no way a girl could be as much of a pain in the ass as you are."

"Gee, thanks. That’s not sexist at all.”

"You're right. Gender equality for ass-pains."

And that was it, really. It was out in the open, and wasn't a big deal. Scott could finally give himself to the good feelings of a new... _Whatever_ this was. The smile spreading across his face pushed his cheeks up; bumped his goggles. He closed his eyes and listened to Alvers yammer away.

They agreed on a time for their date (a date! Scott had a date!) and finally Quicksilver's whining had Lance signing off; hanging up.

Scott flopped back on his bed, the phone on his chest, a dopey smile on his face. He stared up at the ceiling for several long minutes, and then he stood.

He practiced his trumpet for three hours straight.

* * *

After more wardrobe changes than a 90s comedy, Scott finally settled for his standby: khakis, dress shoes, and a shirt with elbow-length sleeves. He went for navy blue, remembering all too clearly when the Brotherhood pretended his red Polo made him a Target employee. _("Cleanup on aisle four!" "Which aisle are the 'personal massagers' on, again?" "I need condoms, some cucumbers, and lots of baby oil, stat!")_

He debated whether to wait outside for Lance's Jeep, then thought that might look bad; might look like he was ashamed of Lance. Lance wasn't a dirty secret. So he waited in the front room, fidgeting, trying not to pace, trying not to acknowledge the giggles and curious eyes of young X-Kids peeking in on him.

He heard the mechanical grinding of Charles's chair lift mere seconds before the slam of a car door just outside. He jumped to his feet, not knowing which way to turn... The crunch of gravel, the creaking of the front gate, the rap of knuckles on the door—

Charles smoothly entered the room, reaching the door before Scott. Scott barely had time to protest before the door knob was turned, and a bouquet-toting Alvers was revealed to the room.

"Mr. Alvers," Charles greeted, cool and arrogant.

Thrown off his guard, Lance stammered. "Um. Hey... Is, uh. Is Summers around? Scott?"

Mortified, Scott hastened to push Charles aside; to crowd Lance back and exit the house with him. "We were just leaving!" he called to his godfather, shooting him a murderous glare. The plastic encasing the hyacinths Lance carried crinkled between their chests, their heady smell momentarily disorienting him. Had Alvers really brought him _flowers?!_

"What time, pray tell, will you be returning my Cyclops?" Charles asked, his voice cool, his eyes piercing.

Scott went still, with Lance looking over his shoulder. Was Charles really doing this; playing the hardened dad, fretting over his child's love life? This wasn't like their godfather-godson relationship at all... Unless he was truly worried for Scott's wellbeing. But was it a warranted worry, or just general prejudice about Lance's Brotherhood status?

"No later than midnight, sir," Lance replied, and then Scott really did have to stifle a squawk. _Sir?_ Had Lance actually called Charles 'sir'?! Pigs were surely flying. Snowballs must be flourishing in hell.

"Midnight, then. I'll be waiting. Drive safely, Mr. Alvers."

"Uh... Yeah. Yes. I will."

Charles and Lance seemed to be having a stare-off, unwilling to look away from the other, until Scott heaved a great sigh and began walking to the parked Jeep, dragging Lance with him by the wrist. _Honestly!_

Charles did not close the door; not while Lance opened the passenger side door for Scott, shutting it after him; not when Lance, too, climbed in, and both boys fastened their seatbelt. Not when Lance backed from the long, curving driveway, lights on, turn signal clicking.

As soon as they reached a road, Lance exhaled a deep sigh... And Scott burst into raucous, belly-shaking laughter. "Oh... My _gosh."_

"Shutupshutupshutup," Lance muttered through clenched teeth, his shoulders rigid, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "It's not funny shut up—"

"It's hilarious! I have _never_ seen him like that before. I will never forget this." Scott held the bouquet to his nose, sniffing appreciatively. “And I can’t believe you brought me these… Tonight is _something,_ alright.”

At this, Lance seemed to recover. He shot Scott a sly glance. "Well, y'know. Slumming it under some bleachers ain't good enough for _Scott Summers..._ Gotta class it up."

"Don't ruin this. I like my flowers. The red ones, and the other red ones, too."

"Good." A hint of softness emerged from Lance's expression, before he quickly turned away again. "They're white and yellow, by the way."

“So, red. Got it.”

Scott was still feeling good, sassy, when they pulled into the McDonalds drive-thru and Lance ordered two dipped cones, paying with crumpled dollars and coins stuffed into the console. "We're doing dessert first," he explained. "Or it'd be a melty picnic."

Scott bit through hard chocolate to the ice cream beneath, feeling younger, freer than he had in years. Maybe ever. Spying a mess of cassette tapes in the console, he sifted his hand through small plastic boxes, checking out the collection. Alvers had everything from classic rock to punk to metal to, of all things, Disney movie soundtracks.

"I just get them all from garage sales and stuff," Lance explained. "Sometimes I buy boxes of them without looking."

"You play the guitar," Scott remembered. He'd noticed the telling calluses on Alvers's fingers on many occasions.

"Badly," Lance agreed with a self-deprecating smile. He looked pleased that Scott had noticed.

"I bet you're okay." In order for calluses to form, Alvers probably practiced a lot. He selected an unlabeled mix tape from the cassettes and pushed it into the tape deck, surprised and pleased to hear The Kinks’ distinctive vocals rising from the speakers.

Feeling dorky, but happy, Scott shimmied his shoulders to _Lola,_ grinning at Lance’s raised eyebrow. Not to be outdone, Lance tossed his head back, belting off-key, "Well I'm not the world's most passionate guy, but when I looked in her eyes, well, I almost fell!"

Scott's face ached from smiling. His belly, too, bouncing with silent giggles. Who knew this would be so much fun? 

He realized, belatedly, that they'd been driving a long time with him barely aware of the turns they took. Anxiety lept to bite his heart. "Where... Are we going?" he asked, trying to sound casual, to keep the anxiety-monster from ruining his voice.

Either he did a poor job of it, or Alvers knew him better than Scott thought, because he put a hand on Scott's leg, palm up, offering. After a moment, Scott took it, lacing their fingers. Lance squeezed. "It's this little clearing off exit 43," he answered. "You can kind of see the Dairy Queen at a distance. It has a good view of the city."

The anxiety abated near instantly. Scott now had a clear map of their surroundings, and no longer had reason to panic. He gave Lance's hand another squeeze in thanks, then reached to turn the deck's volume up. This time, when Lance sang, Scott sang along.

He paid close attention as they took the 43 exit, memorizing the side-streets they turned down before hitting a dirt incline that would surely have given Scott's convertible trouble. The meaty Jeep tires chewed it up; no problem. They made it to the top of the hill, semi-secluded by sugar maples, before Lance at last parked.

They sat in curious silence for a moment before Lance, grinning mischievously, pressed a firm kiss to Scott's mouth and dove out of the Jeep, swinging off the metal frame and landing with both boots thudding the dirt. He jogged to the back and opened the doors, grabbing something and dragging, while Scott was left dazed, wondering what had happened.

Shaking it off, he carefully arranged his bouquet in the cupholder before climbing out, following Lance to the back. Lance had dragged a twin-sized mattress to the ground, dressing it with a soft-looking blanket, and now unpacked a bag containing their picnic. He scattered a handful of electric candles to illuminate their spot, then brought forth plates, wrapped sandwiches, fruit, candy, boiled eggs, chips...

"What's this?" Scott asked, crouching beside him, touching a small, quilted bag.

With his trademark naughty-puppy grin, Lance unzipped it to reveal two warm Hot Pockets. Remembering their banter from before, Scott pretended to groan. Inwardly, he was delighted... He had so few inside jokes with anyone.

More than that, Scott knew Lance had very little money. Knew that his homelife was rough, and sometimes food was scarce. That he was sharing all of this with Scott _meant_ something… But what?

“This is really nice,” he said softly, helping Lance turn all the electric candles on. "Thank you."

Lance preened, pleased. _"Suck_ it, DeeAnne From Seventh Grade, who told me I 'don't have a romantic bone in my body'." At Scott’s puzzled glance, he explained, “She didn’t like that I showed up for the Snowflake Ball in jeans and a T-shirt.”

Scott winced. "Middle-school dances..."

"The _worst,_ right?!" Lance snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering something. He scrambled back into the Jeep and emerged with two bug-repellent bracelets, passing one to Scott. "You'll thank me later."

"Mosquitos?"

"Like nobody's business."

How many people had Lance brought up here to plan ahead so well? Next week, would it be someone else on this mattress, admiring the bird's-eye view of Bayville at sunset? That was okay, right? It was just a date. It didn't have to be serious...

Sitting side-by-side on the mattress, their backs pressed to the Jeep, Lance started unwrapping sandwiches. "I've got, uh... This one's meatloaf, this one's turkey. I don't know what you like."

Scott took the meatloaf. It was surprisingly good, mustard adding heat and pickles adding crunch. When he said so, Lance grinned. "Fred does most of the cooking. He's got that 'Southern home' thing going on. I'm okay, but he's actually _good_ at it."

Scott nodded. He, too, was 'okay' at cooking, so long as the instructions were simple. But it was nothing to write home about. "I like it when Ororo cooks... She makes this street food stuff called nyama choma... I'll have to bring you some next time."

 _Next time._ Oops; presumptuous, much? But if he'd spoken too soon, Lance didn't show it. He just grinned. "I like new stuff." He grabbed an egg, peeled it, and handed it to Scott. After eating it, Scott returned the favor with an orange. They split the segments, fresh and sweet.

Seeing it shine, glossy, on Alvers's lips made Scott's heart kick. He was having so much fun he'd almost forgotten the kisses hanging between them; the promise offered by a bed; by big, warm hands.

Screwing up his courage, Scott leaned towards Lance. He had to take his jaw in hand, marveling at its square cut, its strong chin. He brought Lance to him, kissing with the gentlest brush of mouths, tasting the sweetness that clung to him.

Lance exhaled, leaning into it without reservation. He, too, brought gloved hands up, cupping Scott's cheeks, running careful thumbs along the bones there. He was good at kissing, tender and lush, and it was so easy to lose himself in the slide and pull; the light scrape of teeth.

Lance rubbed down to his neck, stroking his throat with careful knuckles, parting his lips and tasting Scott's cupid bow with just the tip of his tongue. Who in the world could have guessed that the school delinquent would be so gentle?

Lance broke the kiss first, sitting with his forehead against Scott's, seeming not to mind the goggles that got in their way. He just continued to stroke along Scott's cheek with scarred knuckles. "Is this good?" he asked, voice soft enough to hide in the space between them.

That was what Scott had asked Jean, again and again, making sure she liked what was happening. It had sometimes frustrated her — “ _If I didn't like it, I'd say so!"_ — But he'd _needed_ that reassurance... Sometimes, things had to be said aloud.

"Yes." Scott shifted closer. "I like this. I want more."

With Lance's hands guiding his waist, Scott slipped onto his lap, his back to the lovely view below them. That was fine. This view was just as nice. He held Lance's face and kissed along his features; the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw and just underneath. Lance's hands worked up the hem of his shirt, rubbing his bare sides.

Scott's heart was pounding so hard that he could hear it. Laughing, he grabbed for one of Lance's hands and brought it to his chest. "I think I'm nervous," he admitted, letting Lance feel the trainwreck going on just inside.

In answer, Lance thumbed Scott's collarbone. Bent to kiss it. He tugged, again, at the hem of Scott's shirt. "Off?"

"Only if you return the favor."

They both shed a layer of clothing. Lance snorted when Scott primly folded and set his shirt aside. "Boyscout."

"Punk."

Scott only owned sports bras, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't worn one of the nicer ones tonight; solid black, no holes. Lance looked at his chest, then away again. "Is it okay to touch you?"

"If it's okay for me to touch _you."_

That seemed agreeable to Lance. He sat back as Scott looked him over, hands wandering down his chest. He was top-heavy; broad-shouldered, tapering all the way down to his hips. Jean was right: He really did have no ass of which to speak. Like Scott, Lance was peppered with the occasional scar or freckle. Scott touched them all, working down his chest to his stomach, which he stroked until Lance shivered.

He was fuzzy with a light sheen of body hair, and Scott pressed his cheek to it, nuzzling, unexpectedly fond of the fluff. "I'm jealous," he admitted, stroking that belly fluff. "Wish I had more of this."

"You have some." Lance touched the faint happy trail below Scott's navel; the patch between his breasts. "You're so cute."

Scott scrunched his nose, wondering if he was being made fun of.

"I'm serious! And then there's these..." Lance gestured to Scott's stomach muscles; muscles he'd worked so hard to strengthen. "Holy shit, Summers. Goddamn." He mimed fanning himself; wicking sweat off his forehead.

Well. He couldn't fight the grin rising. He just nuzzled into Lance's neck, kissing and nipping. Boldly pawing below Lance's naval to the seam of his pants.

Lance felt around the band of Scott's bra, searching for clasps. "Don't," Scott mumbled. "That... That can stay on."

"Gotcha. What about these?" Lance slipped a finger beneath the waist of Scott's pants.

Scott shook his head no, and Lance let go. He pressed a knuckle below Scott's chin and tilted his face back up, stealing another kiss. Into his ear Lance whispered, "What do you want, baby?"

"I want..." For the first time since the date began, Scott felt his face burn. He hid more firmly in Lance's neck, gripping his arms for reassurance. "What... What that tennis player was doing to you. That first time I saw you."

"Travis?" Lance thought. "Oh, you want... Summers, you wanna _blow_ me?" His voice dropped about an octave in a millisecond.

Scott, still hidden, nodded. "Teach me. I can't stop... Thinking about it. All the time."

He was unprepared for Lance's groan; for the way his hands tightened around Scott's hips. "Of all the things... That's so _fucking_ hot, Summers..."

Apparently. Scott felt the erection stiffening against his stomach. He returned his hand there, palming over scratchy denim. "So, can I?"

"Yes. Fucking yes. Here, up—" He pushed at Scott's hips until he sat back, then stood and re-opened the back doors of the Jeep. He kicked his boots off, whipped his belt to the side (his eagerness made Scott snort), and unbuttoned, unzipped his jeans. He sat sideways inside the Jeep, with his feet still on the mattress.

"Well. That was easy." Scott tried not to look as flustered as he felt.

"They didn't call me ‘Slutterfly’ in Illinois for _nothing."_

"Did they really?!"

In answer, Lance beckoned Scott closer, situating him between his knees. His boxers were black; the faded kind. Black that had been through the washing machine a hundred times or more. His erection was more obvious against the opening of his boxers, tenting them out. When Scott reached to touch it, it twitched against his hand. Lance's breath caught.

"Can I—"

"You can do anything you want. Uh, except for biting. I'm a kinky fuck, but even I'm not into dick-biting. Yet."

Scott had not envisioned himself laughing so much during sex with Alvers, but he didn't mind. It was nice, actually. Pulling at the elastic of the boxers, he reached inside and gripped him. He was warmer than Scott expected. Was he big? Maybe... Scott had very little basis of comparison, outside of anatomy textbooks. He looked proportionate to the rest of his body, anyway. He was no more or less attracted to Lance's genitals than he had been to Jean's; it was only that they were both attached to people he deeply wanted to please.

He gripped him and pumped his fist, watching the way foreskin pulled away from and back over the purpled head. He was so intrigued by the process that he quite forgot Lance was there, groaning his name. "Summers, you're killing me..."

"Right, sorry. How do I do this?" Pearly fluid beaded on the tip, and Scott leaned in to lick it, wrinkling his nose at the bitterness.

"Summers!" A hand gripped his hair. This time, Lance's voice soared high as a flute. Scott glanced at him, concern mixing with amusement. "How am I supposed to teach you if you keep turning my brain to mush?"

"I'm sorry; _how_ is that different from usual?"

"Ha, ha." Lance took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, composing himself. "Okay, so. Cover your teeth, like this."

Skeptical, Scott attempted to mimic Lance's chipmunk face. Apparently it was correct, because Lance nodded. "Okay. Seriously: No teeth is the most important thing. Sex is like pizza; even if it's not the best, it's still pretty good. Does that make sense?"

Scott nodded slowly, eyebrows still high, barely suppressing a smirk.

"Shut up." Lance nudged him, grinning. "You know what I mean."

"So, 'just do it.' That's your expert advice."

"Look, _you_ wanted this..."

Holding back on his chuckles, Scott lowered his head and put his mouth on Lance, mimicking what he'd watched in videos. It wasn't the most comfortable fit, and the more he took in, the more his jaw ached. How had Travis done this? Loudly, and with vigor. ‘Go for it’ indeed.

With one hand braced on Lance's knee and the other gripping his shaft, Scott set to sucking the head. It wasn't as easy as he might have thought, but Lance was so responsive to every little thing that he nearly forgot the discomfort. He tongued his slit, his foreskin, and Lance's head fell back. He chased his pumping hand with his mouth, and Lance's soft cursing filled his ears. The taste was overbearing and not entirely pleasant, and yet it was strangely compelling. Scott wanted more.

Purely by accident he hollowed his cheeks as he went down, and Lance's hips bucked, cramming the head against Scott's esophagus. Gagging, retching, Scott threw himself back. His eyes watered; his throat thick and clotted with mucus.

"Shit! Shit, sorry..." Lance bent forward, taking Scott's face in hand, looking him over. "Breathe through your nose. Are you gonna puke?"

Scott shook his head, still coughing. He rested his temple against Lance's thigh, catching his breath. "I am... Not very good at this."

"Nobody is; not really. We're all just wobbly meat sacks flapping and slapping and oozing together."

"Attractive imagery, Alvers."

"Sex is gross, dude. I just happen to like gross stuff."

Scott laughed, sighing as Lance stroked his hair. "I don't like not being good at things."

"I am shocked. Can you see the shock on my face."

Pretending to glare, Scott pinched Lance's thigh. Lance took his hand, bringing it up to kiss his knuckles. "It felt good, Scott. Really. You wanna keep going, or try something else, or... You ready to be done?"

"I want... To keep going, but my throat hurts now."

Lance winced. "Sorry about that. Here, sit back."

Scott did, and Lance slipped out of the Jeep, crawling onto the mattress beside him. He sprawled out and patted his chest, and Scott snuggled up, curious and relieved.

Lance continued nuzzling him, soft as any old hound dog. "The first time I blew a guy," he said, smirking a little at the memory. "He jizzed all over my face, which. Y'know. _Hot._ But some got in my eyes, and I swear I looked like I had pink-eye for _days._ That shit stung."

Scott nodded in sympathy, then tapped the lenses of his goggles. "I don't suppose that would be a problem for me."

"A boyscout is prepared for anything."

Because he felt good like this, shirtless and warm, Scott returned the nuzzles. Following his instincts, he kissed Lance's neck and lower, stroking his ribs and tonguing his collarbones. He felt nothing like Jean; hard where she was soft, flat where she curved. But Scott liked it all the same. He liked rubbing his cheek against the fuzz of Lance's sternum. Thumbing a small brown nipple, Scott asked, "Do you like this?"

"I like everything. That's a favorite."

Scott touched them both, tugging until they pebbled. "Kurt owes me five bucks. He swore you were pierced head to toe."

"You made a _bet_ on whether I have my nips pierced?!"

"Among other things."

Looking half offended, half flattered, Lance made to reply, but was quickly cut off by a breathy moan when Scott fastened his mouth to a nipple and sucked. _"Oh,_ fuck..."

 _That_ was more like it. Lance's hand pressed flat to the back of Scott's head, keeping him there. When Scott reached to take his cock in hand again, stroking in time with the pulls of his mouth, Lance shivered all over. "Fuck, Summers, that's so _good..."_

"Shh." Scott kissed his chest, rolling so that he straddled Lance's waist. This, he was more comfortable, familiar with. And when Lance gazed at him with blown-out brown eyes, he felt a flush of pride in his chest. "You're so pretty..."

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it was not a deep blush welling in Lance's cheeks, spilling down his neck and pooling onto his chest. So Alvers liked praise, huh? Filing that away in his lexicon of 'Lance Facts,' Scott helped himself to more kisses, coaxing Lance's mouth open to taste him thoroughly. Lance shook all over, clawing at Scott, urging him closer.

Scott pulled back to smile at him, kissing his forehead. He jerked him off faster, twisting his wrist with an instinct he didn't know he had. "You're not only _pretty,_ Alvers, but you're also cute." He had a nibble of his lip, boldness growing. "And right now, you're all mine."

A quake rocked the clearing, making stones and candles dance. Scott felt it echo in his chest; felt a surge of arousal rock him, and laughed, euphoric. He ducked his face, a forearm braced on either side of Lance's head. "Oh. Is that how it is?"

Lance growled and snagged Scott's hip, bringing a knee between his legs to grind against. Scott hissed at the friction, humping Alvers's thigh with far less self-consciousness than he was accustomed to. He wanted to be closer. He wanted _Lance._ Pulling back, he unbuttoned his pants, easing the zipper open. Lance watched his hands with hungry eyes, reached for him, then hesitated. "Can I?"

"Yes." Scott wriggled out of his pants, kicking his legs like an inelegant rabbit to get them, and his shoes, off. He didn't even bother to fold them before throwing the whole mess aside. Instantly Lance's palm was between his legs, rubbing.

"Aw, fuck," Lance groaned, as though it was a physically painful shock to his system. "You're so _wet,_ Scotty; all wet for me."

It was true, and Scott shivered hard, the cold fabric clinging to him in the light breeze of the encroaching dusk.

"Wanna get eaten out?" Lance asked, eager, sitting up to kiss Scott's chest, licking the sweat from between his breasts. "I love eating pussy, Scotty; it's one of my favorites… Oh, fuck, wait, first—"  
  
Lance pulled back, expression earnest, correcting himself. _"Do_ you call it that? I was kinda looking into your whole situation, and apparently not all trans dudes like to say 'pussy.' So. What are we working with, here?"

How many times in a single conversation could Lance throw him for a loop? The man was truly full of surprises. "You were... Researching? For _me?"_

"Well, yeah, I didn't wanna fuck up." Lance scratched the back of his neck. "So...?"

A little dazed, Scott mumbled. "I don't really care... I just say 'pussy' and 'clit' and all that. But... But, yeah, you're right... It's pretty personal. I'm. Glad you asked."

"Great." The wolfish grin returned. "Okay. So... You: pussy. Me: mouth. Sound good?"

"Oh, for crying out loud." Scott covered his face, hiding his laughter and bewilderment with shaky hands. "You know what? Sure. Yes; eat me out.”

The shivering did not abate. It was a full-bodied thing, his nerves jittering and dancing. Lance got him on his back, tugging his boxers off, looking down at him and licking his lips. He ran two fingers up Scott's pussy lips, then held them up, spreading them wide so Scott's slickness stretched and broke between them like clear glue. He put those fingers to his mouth and sucked, eyes closing as if in rhapsody. 

Scott, panting, reached for Lance, clawing his shoulders. "Come on," he muttered. "Alvers, _come on..."_

"I could make you beg," Lance teased, but it was clear he was too eager for that. He was already crouched between Scott's thighs, breathing hot over his pussy. He swiped with his tongue, tasting, and Scott's head fell back with a hiss. Lance warmed him up with broad, flat licks up his cunt, nibbling and sucking on his lips. He wiggled a finger inside him. Scott was so wet he felt no resistance. He teased Scott's clit with a flick of his tongue, then returned to the broader swipes.

Scott played with his breasts, squeezing, thumbing his nipples to intensify the stimulation between his legs. He felt Lance's eyes on him, but was too shy to meet his gaze. Instead he rocked his hips, breath hitching every time Lance found his clit. He ate pussy with his whole face and neck, shoulders hunched, a hand under Scott's thigh to keep him opened wide. His lips trapped Scott's clit as he sucked, and Scott slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from sobbing.

Encouraged, Lance pressed a second finger inside of him, fucking him shallowly with thrusts of his wrist. He crooked his fingers, beckoning, pressing down flat on Scott's stomach with his other hand, and Scott writhed at the pressure to his G-spot. It always made him feel half like coming; half like peeing. He knew squirting wasn't the _same_ as peeing, but it felt similar enough that it made him nervous. He didn't need to feel any more embarrassed than he already did.

"Alvers..." Scott half-sat up, anxiety getting the better of him. "Alvers, stop."

Lance looked at him, face shiny and wet, and Scott almost lost his nerve. He wavered, wondering if it was time to call it quits. He'd often stopped Jean mid-action, unable to ever fully let go and enjoy what was happening, no matter how good it felt.

Something, though; _something_ in his gut throbbed, needing more. "Do you have condoms?"

Alvers did. A whole glove compartment full, on top of packets of lube and quite a few napkins. Scott snorted as Lance checked the date on one of the wrappers, tore it open, and rolled it onto himself with the ease of too much practice. 

"You're really wet," Lance said, laying Scott back, bending to kiss him twice before situating between his thighs. "This shouldn't hurt. If it hurts, you need to tell me right away. I'm gonna go slow."

He guided himself into Scott with one hand, careful and concentrating. He was right... There was no pain; only an uncomfortable stretching, a fullness. He was larger than any toy Scott had ever used, and he appreciated the care. Once he'd bottomed out, he took Scott's hip again, shifting him. "Okay, baby boy? Get your knee up, like this..."

 _Baby boy._ The endearment warmed a piece of Scott's heart he hadn't known was cold until now. The affection washed over him, and he found himself linking both arms around Lance's neck, holding him close. They squirmed to fit together comfortably, and when Lance rocked his hips, Scott gasped. 

Lance laughed, moving, following Scott's cues to establish a rhythm. "Play with your clit for me, baby," he murmured. "I wanna watch you fall apart. Wanna see you come _so hard_ on my dick..."

"Fuck!" Scott wasn't one for profanity, but this burst its way out of him without stopping to check the community guidelines. There was no other word for it, and it brightened Lance's eyes like nothing ever had. Scott touched himself like he did when he was alone, fingers rubbing frantic circles over his throbbing clit. He arched under Lance's steady thrusts, gasping lungfuls of air like he might run out. Already heat was building inside him, and he knew he was close. "I don't think I can last very long. I'm sorry..."

Lance kissed his sweaty temple. "It's okay. I'm really worked up, too. Just do what feels good."

Scott fell back, gripping the corners of the mattress, bracing his heels on the ground and thrusting back onto Lance with vigor. Some part of him was self-conscious with how loud he was breathing, with the way his breasts bounced, but he could hardly stop it now. It felt too _good_ to stop. He fucked himself on Lance's cock, moaning. "Lance... Fuck, Lance!"

Lance kissed both of his collarbones; then the soft hollow between them. He was panting, too; hot puffs exploding over Scott's skin. He took over Scott's job and rubbed smooth, firm circles on his clit. "You're so sexy, baby. Look at you, all pretty for me... Gonna make you come, Summers."

"Please!"

Lance trapped Scott's clit between two knuckles, rubbing until white overtook the edges of his vision; until he was crying out, hoarse and broken and pulsing hard. He crashed, body spasming, fluid spurting between his legs to soak Lance's cock. From many miles away, he thought he heard Lance moan, and then he was sailing away; far beyond his body in a sea of foamy white.

He drifted back to himself after perhaps a year, or a minute; to feel Lance pull out of him, tossing the condom aside. Lance jerked himself off hard and fast, his moans rising in pitch until he spurted jets of hot come over Scott's belly. 

Easing onto the mattress, both boys took a moment to catch their breath. Scott’s heart was beating so hard it shook his vision. He was acutely aware of a tickling sensation on his arm. He watched a moth tiptoe dainty feet over his freckles, catch a whiff of his bug-repellent bracelet, and fly away in disgust.

Lance pressed a kiss to his shoulder, tucking an arm around his waist and drawing him close. When Scott looked at him, he smiled. "Hey."

"Hey..."

Lance gripped him tighter, manhandling him into a proper cuddle. He buried his face in the back of Scott's neck. "Are you okay? Does anything hurt?"

"Not yet." Scott would probably be sore, later. He usually was after going at it with toys.

Lance hummed, trailing his fingers in the come on Scott's stomach, drawing a flower around the edges of his bellybutton. Scott huffed, but made no effort to stop him. "You're making a mess."

"Mine..."

"Is that what you think? You come on something, and suddenly it's yours?"

"If it wants to be. If _he_ wants to be."

Scott's brain wasn't working at top speeds just yet. It chugged through the syllables, making mud of them all. "What... Are you saying?"

Lance shrugged, for the first time a little cagey. "It means whatever. If you... Wanted to do this again. Or something. We could do other stuff, too... Non-sex stuff. _And_ sex stuff. Words are hard."

"Like a date? Dates, plural? You and me on dates?"

"Yeah, uh. I guess."

More chugging through mud, but Scott was starting to catch on. "You're asking me out."

"I was trying to, yeah."

 _"Why?"_ Of all the people Lance slept with, Scott could hardly be the best. He was too picky, had too many hang-ups, to be an easy-breezy time.

"Oh, for... I _told_ you, Summers; I fucking like you. Aren't you supposed to be smart?"

That was too much! Irritated, Scott rolled over, expecting to see a smirk, hear a laugh. Alvers, pulling a prank on him yet again. Unfortunately, he couldn't see _anything,_ as his goggles had completely fogged over.

Alvers did indeed snort, but it wasn't cruel, only teasing. "Oh, my God, baby... Here, let me... Do you trust me?" He touched the thick elastic at the back of Scott's head, prepared to slip the band off.

Funnily enough, Scott found he _did_ trust Lance. He closed his eyes and nodded, still feeling huffy and scorned. Lance removed his goggles, careful not to snag them in his hair. There was a rustling of fabric as Lance, presumably, cleaned the lenses on a discarded shirt.

Lance paused before handing them back. He stroked Scott's cheek, his voice and fingers soft. "I never get to see your whole face. Your eyelashes are the same color as your hair." He touched the elastic band to Scott's hand, allowing him to secure the device himself.

By the time Scott was able to open his eyes, he was no longer feeling so huffy. It was safe to be vulnerable around Alvers, and his subconscious clearly knew it. Besides; surely he couldn't make his voice so gentle as a joke. It was just Scott's anxiety being mean to him again: Lance meant it when he said he liked him.

He studied Lance's face, a little worn, a little sleepy. He could imagine him in ten, twenty, forty years, lined with wrinkles, altered from weight gain or loss, but still the same at the core. It was a face Scott felt safe looking at, across the bed from him. "I'd like to go on dates with you," he answered. "What about your other..." What to call the people Lance took under the bleachers? 'Partners'? 'Lovers'? _'Paramores'?_

Lance cleared his throat. Gave a nervous laugh. "I fuck around when I'm between relationships, but I swear I've never, ever cheated. I never would."

Scott believed him, instantly and without reservation. He'd been loyal to Kitty through the tumalt of their relationship, and to this day maintained a friendship with her. A guy who treated his exes with respect seemed more trustworthy than those who trash-talked them behind their backs.

"Is that what you really want?" he asked, finally. _"Would_ you be happy with me? Contrary to popular belief, I'm not actually Mr. Perfect."

"Well, color me shocked. And here I thought you were the next messiah. Relationship _so_ over." Lance grinned to show he was teasing, nuzzling into Scott's neck. "I'll tell you again, Summers, if you really need to hear it... I like you. I like hanging out with you. I like joking around with you. You're hot as hell and smart as fuck, and I dig the shit out of you."  
  
Scott, warmed through now, pressed forward until he was nested in the comfort of Lance's arms. He was so solid to lean against... Scott could get used to this. "I'll give it a try if you will, then," he agreed. Swallowed. "Dating, huh?"

"Quit sounding so freaked out; it's not scary. Unless you want it to be. Do you like horror movies? There's this movie coming out and fucking _nobody_ will see it with me, but it looks great, this guy gets his face slashed with an ice skate and all this blood spurts for like, ten feet, and, and... Can I have your Letterman jacket?"

Scott, with near-whiplash, blinked. "My what, now?"

"I've never dated a jock before... You know how in movies the jock guy always gives his girl his sporty-dude jacket? I want that. I wanna wear your sporty-dude jacket."  
  
"Um, okay, well..." Scott fought back a laugh. "I don't have a Letterman jacket, because I'm not on a varsity team." At Lance's blank expression, he explained, "'Varsity' is short for 'university.' The most I can offer you is one of my track jerseys."

"Awh," Lance pouted. “I look bad in purple.”

"Gonna dump me for a college football star? Or should I say, a college football star’s _jacket?_ "

"Huh? No. Ew, _football.”_

Scott sat up, searching for his pants and shoes, and set to dressing himself, tired of being naked with the mosquitoes growing more and more nosy. When he stood to pull his shirt back on, he removed his class ring and dropped it into Lance's lap. "Is this a good substitute?"

Alvers held the jewelry, confused, before realization struck. Beaming, he slipped it onto his ring finger and held his hand up to admire it. "Perfect!"

"Maybe someday I'll be able to give you my sporty-dude jacket. You'll just have to hang onto that until then. And can you put your pants back on, please? It's a quarter past eleven, so... You should probably be dressed for when Charles kicks your butt."  
  
Maybe they were both a little slow on the uptake, because Lance just stared at him until Scott began tossing Lance's clothes at him... Underwear, shirt, vest...

"Shit!" Lance leapt to his feet, tripped, and caught himself with both palms on the side of the Jeep. "Oh, shit, I forgot you have a curfew..."

Scott didn't, actually. Or rather, he hadn't in the past. Part of him was curious to see what Charles would do if he broke rules that had never been in place before. Would he be scolded? _Grounded?_ What was being grounded like?

Still, he helped pack up the picnic and mattress. "Can you check to see if we left any trash behind? It's too dark for red-only vision to be useful."

Lance did as Scott asked, picking up some plastic wrap from their sandwiches and stuffing it into his pocket. "Seeing at night is probably hard for you, huh? Can you drive?"

"Legally, no. When we have to go somewhere after dark, or in bad weather, Jean drives."

"That sucks. You know you can always call me, right? If you're stuck somewhere, or whatever. I'll come get you."  
  
Scott offered Lance a smile, reaching to squeeze his hand. "Thanks, Alvers. Same here... I know your rust-bucket breaks down all the time."

"Okay first off, don't talk about my wife like that." Lance stroked the hood of his Jeep as though consoling "her."

"Oh, I'm the other man, huh?"

"Yeah. The side-ho. Homewrecker."

They climbed into Lance's wife, which miraculously started up without stalling or losing any essential parts. Lance dug around for his cigarettes as he took side-streets back to the highway. He passed Scott his lighter. "Please?"

Scott flicked the wheel until a flame danced, and Lance leaned in, inhaling until the end caught. Scott turned the device back off again, storing it safely in the console.

Lance exhaled smoke out the open window. "I'm surprised you don't throw a fuss about this."

"It's your car. It's your lungs. You're an adult. You're not stupid— you know it's not good for you. If you did it in my bedroom, or blew it right in my face, then I'd be upset."

"Fair." Lance ashed into the little cup-ashtray. "I... Try to quit, sometimes."

"If you're asking for help, I'll see what I can do. But you have to actually ask me."

"Maybe soon."

"Fair."

The silence wasn't a charged or tense one. Scott felt pleasantly tired, and leaned his cheek against the window, watching obscure red lights whip by all around.

Driving with his knees, Lance patted around until he found Scott's hand, lacing their fingers. Scott felt the press of his ring on Lance's finger, and liked the heft of it. "When can I see you again? Outside of school, I mean. If you still do your bleacher-jog things, I can... I can be there on Monday for you."  
  
The thought of Lance waking up early for him, waiting on the bleachers, made Scott smile. "I'll bring breakfast, if you do."  
  
"Anything but those protein bars."  
  
Scott laughed. "It's a date." 

_~ fin ~_

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to likeabomb for rekindling my love for fanfic in general and Scott in particular. (And for beta-reading.)


End file.
